


Happy Thanksgiving, Clyde Donovan

by hollycomb



Category: South Park
Genre: F/M, First Time, Illegitimacy, Lies, M/M, Marijuana, Multi, Multiple Pairings, Past Infidelity, Scandal, Thanksgiving, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-28
Updated: 2014-11-28
Packaged: 2018-02-27 08:38:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2686346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hollycomb/pseuds/hollycomb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Thanksgiving, and Clyde misses his mom as usual. Fortunately, he has a lot of distractions this year. Maybe too many.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Happy Thanksgiving, Clyde Donovan

**Author's Note:**

> After making [this Craig post](http://hollyhark.tumblr.com/post/103462532420/could-you-please-rant-a-little-about-craig-i-just) and [this Clyde post](http://hollyhark.tumblr.com/post/103471065470/oh-my-goodness-i-really-loved-your-craig-ramble), I had to write this fic. Sorry to take yet another break from Never Change - I'll be getting back to that one tomorrow!

In the years immediately following Betsy's death, the Donovans were invited to the Stevens' Thanksgiving without being asked to contribute a dish, but once Clyde hit high school Bebe started telling him to bring something. At first it was just rolls. Clyde's father brought a pack of King's Hawaiian ones, which apparently were not good enough for Bebe's family, because the following year Bebe asked Clyde to bring a green bean casserole. She even handed him the recipe in class. Clyde must have done a decent enough job of making it, because now she asks him to bring one every year. 

This is the first year that Kenny has joined them for the meal. Clyde is very annoyed by his presence, and by the fact that Kenny apparently wasn't even asked to bring rolls, much less a casserole like the one Clyde spent hours shopping for and preparing. Kenny is Bebe's boyfriend, and he's smiling way too much at the dinner table. 

"Who wants to carve?" Mrs. Stevens asks when she brings the big turkey out. 

"Can I do it?" Kenny asks. Clyde laughs, but Kenny seems to be serious, though there's no way he has turkey-carving experience. The McCormick family Thanksgiving meal is typically a canned ham donated by Sooper Foods, according to Stan. 

"Of course you can," Bebe says, leaning onto Kenny as if his offer to carve is very valiant. Clyde's dad and Mr. Stevens are both peering into the living room, trying to see the football game that's been muted on TV. Kenny's family is elsewhere, presumably eating canned ham.

"Cool," Kenny says, standing. Clyde is fuming. He usually carves. It's weird that Mrs. Stevens even suggested that someone else might do it. It's weird that Kenny is here, that Bebe is in love with him, that Clyde's mom is dead. He used to love Thanksgiving, and sitting next to Bebe in the years after he'd lost his mother was a consolation, especially that first year, when he was in tears throughout the meal and she sat so close, her arm hugged around his shoulders while she dabbed at his wet cheeks with a fancy paper napkin. It had helped. Now it's six years later and she's way across the table, beaming at Kenny while he slices into the turkey as if he's the man of the house.

"You're cutting it too thick," Clyde says, and Bebe giggles. 

"It's fine," she says. "I like thick meat." 

Kenny looks up to smirk at her, and Mrs. Stevens doesn't even have the decency to tell them to knock it off, that this is not the place for that kind of bawdy talk. Clyde takes an angry gulp from his glass of milk and cranes his neck to see the game. The Broncos are down by seven in the first quarter.

"This smells so good," Kenny says, still slicing the turkey too thickly. "Thanks for inviting me. Everything looks great."

"We're happy to have you, honey!" Mrs. Stevens is lingering at Kenny's shoulder but not bothering to direct his sloppy slices. She's rubbing his back, in fact, in a way that makes it seem like she's in love with him, too. Kenny is incredibly good looking. It makes no sense and isn't fair. Bebe is a total knockout, too, and Clyde has given a lot of thought to how great it must look when they have sex. Not even like a porno: it would look like an elaborately shot sex scene in an epic film, starring two A-list actors and featuring 800-count sheets on a bed in a palatial villa with incredible panoramic views of the Italian countryside. Or something like that. 

The food is good, but Clyde is holding back tears while he eats, hating the small talk. The annual sharp stab of missing his mom that Bebe's company usually protects him from is hitting him hard now, and it's Kenny's fault. 

"This casserole is really good, Clyde," Bebe says. She's giving him a worried look, probably noticing that his eyes are pink at the corners. 

"Yeah, delicious!" Kenny says. "I've never liked green beans before. What are these crunchy things?"

"Onions," Clyde says, sniffling. "From a can. Fried."

"Touchdown!" Mr. Stevens hollers, leaning halfway off his chair to see the game. Clyde's dad whoops and drops his fork to clap over his plate. 

"Honey," Mrs. Stevens says. "We're having our meal now." 

"Mom, it's fine," Bebe says. "Go Broncos." 

"How long did it take you to cook this turkey?" Kenny asks. He's sitting at the head of the table, and he has his back to the living room and the television. Apparently he doesn't care about football, only NASCAR and the stupid Magic card tournaments that he and Cartman still compete in. Mrs. Stevens smiles at him.

"It took about three hours to cook," she says. "And that was after all the stuffing and so forth. I got up at five AM this morning." 

"Whoa," Kenny says. "Well, it was worth it. This is better than the one I had at Stan's last year."

"Sharon Marsh is not a great cook," Mrs. Stevens says, laughing to herself. "Not to be rude, but. Her contributions to the school bake sales were never popular."

"My mom's used to be the most popular," Clyde says. He immediately feels like an idiot, and he's losing his ability to hold back tears. It doesn't help that his father hasn't even noticed this comment and is cheering for a successful kick.

"Betsy was an excellent cook," Mrs. Stevens says, and Clyde starts crying into his napkin. "And a great friend. Oh, honey! It's okay to cry. Roger, your son is upset."

"Hmm?" Clyde's dad says, and Clyde is glad that he's distracted, because Bebe hurries over to hug him instead, and she smells like spicy apples.

"Sweetheart," she says, her arms around his shoulders and her boobs kind of in his face. Clyde hugs her back, wanting to bury his face against her chest, and not even in a sexual way. She's just so comforting; he loves her so much. 

"Hey, buddy," his dad says. "Hey, it's okay." 

"I know it's okay, Jesus," Clyde says, his voice muffled against Bebe's shoulder. She's sighing, petting his hair. He can't believe Kenny is seeing this. 

"Man," Kenny says. "Death sucks."

Clyde wants to hate him for that stupid comment, but it's not like it isn't true. He sniffles and accepts a fresh napkin from Bebe, wipes at his face. 

"Sorry," he says. 

"There's nothing to be sorry for," Bebe says, and she kisses his cheek. 

"The Broncos took the lead," Bebe's father says, as if to console Clyde with this, and Mrs. Stevens glares at him. 

"Good," Clyde says, his voice more nasal than usual. "That's good."

The rest of the meal is kind of grim and quiet, and Clyde blames himself. Everyone was having a good time until he had to go and turn on the waterworks. His father had said that to him, once, when he was seven years old and he cried at an amusement park because he'd spilled his bag of Skittles all over the pavement when he opened them too enthusiastically. They were with two other families, the Broflovskis and the Marshes, and Clyde's father had been embarrassed by his overreaction to the mishap. _Everyone was having a good time until you had to go and turn on the waterworks_. Clyde thinks of this phrase literally every time he cries, even if he's alone.

Clyde helps clear the plates when everyone is stuffed and the game has gone to halftime. Kenny is already at the sink in the kitchen, his sleeves rolled up. 

"It's the least I can do," he says when Mrs. Donovan fusses over his generous dish washing. Clyde walks over to help Bebe dry things, listless and bummed out. 

"Leave that," Bebe says when Kenny starts on the turkey-roasting pan. "It needs to soak. Let's go upstairs for a minute." She puts her hand on Clyde's back to indicate that she's including him. "I need to smoke again," she says, more quietly. "My parents are driving me fucking crazy." 

Bebe and Kenny are both huge potheads. Clyde has smoked with them before, both together and separately, but pot has never done much for him. Nevertheless, when they're upstairs together he partakes of the vaporizer Bebe uses to smoke, her bedroom door closed. 

"I was so high during that whole meal," Kenny says, flopping onto Bebe's bed. "Could you tell?"

"No," Clyde says, lingering near the window. The sky is monotone gray, snow from two days ago still blanketing yards and piled alongside driveways.

"Are you okay?" Bebe asks after she's taken another hit. She hands the vape pen to Kenny and walks over to give Clyde a hug from behind, standing up on her tip-toes to rest her chin on his shoulder. "Hmm?" she says, squeezing him. 

"I'm fine," Clyde says. "I just wish there was someone else in town who doesn't have a mom anymore. Wait, no. That's mean. I just. It's hard to explain how much it fucking hurts."

"There's an afterlife," Kenny says, stretching out on the bed, his arms folded behind his head. "I'm sure of it, so. You'll see her again."

"Ha," Clyde says, not comforted by that. He and his mom were fighting before she died. He's been told lots of times that she's not still mad at him, but he's not going to believe that until he hears it from her, which won't happen.

"Let's not talk about your God shit right now," Bebe says, groaning. "I'm so fucking horny today." She's still holding onto Clyde, and he flushes all over when he hears this. Her magnificent boobs are resting snugly against his back. "Why is that?" she asks, turning to Kenny. "Is that a Thanksgiving thing?"

"Thanksgiving horniness?" Kenny snorts. "No, it's a you thing, every day." He smiles when she kicks his foot, which is dangling over the side of her bed. 

"I could go downstairs," Clyde says, glumly. "If you guys want to. Do something."

"Mhmm," Bebe says, and she starts unbuttoning Clyde's shirt, still holding onto him from behind. Clyde glances over at Kenny. He's smiling. "Nah," Bebe says, reaching in to touch Clyde's chest. Her hands are cold, and he flinches when her fingertips brush his stiff nipples. "You stay." 

"Oh, god," Kenny says, laughing. "You want to do it now? With your fucking parents downstairs?"

"Do what?" Clyde asks, starting to get hard. "What's happening?"

"Clyde," Bebe says, kissing his neck. "I think you are so, so cute. I've always had a crush on you. Do you like boys or girls? Or both?"

"Um," Clyde says, staring at Kenny and waiting for him to get mad. He's just grinning like an idiot, his legs spread apart. "What?"

"Sorry," Bebe says, turning him around. She reaches up to hold Clyde's face, stroking his cheeks with her thumbs. "I shouldn't be so high when I, like, bring this up, but. Me and Kenny want to have sex with you sometime. Ideally now. Would you be into that, or are you, like, really against penises?"

"I--" Clyde looks at Kenny again. He shrugs.

"It's okay if you don't want to," Kenny says. "We're in a sort of open relationship, see, but we only fool around with other people when we're together. Otherwise we'd get jealous."

"Who -- you do this?" Clyde looks back at Bebe. He's really hard now, really wants to kiss her. "With people? Other people?"

"Only with Butters so far," Bebe says.

"Butters!" 

"Shhh," Kenny says, laughing. "Yeah, he's sexual dynamite." 

Bebe laughs, too, and leans up to kiss Clyde on the lips. He's breathing quickly, a little scared but so turned on that his dick is throbbing. He opens his lips for Bebe's tongue, pressing his into her mouth. She tastes amazing, like sweet potatoes and minty chapstick. Tentatively, he reaches down to squeeze her ass with both hands, moaning. He feels like he's going to faint, or come in his pants. She's smiling when he pulls back, and Kenny is getting up, sliding off the bed. 

"Aw," Bebe says, and she reaches down to give Clyde's ass an answering squeeze. "I knew you'd be a good kisser. You're so sweet."

"I--" For a second, Clyde is afraid he's going to start crying again, dizzy with the weird bounty that is suddenly being presented to him. Kenny walks over to them and puts his hand over Clyde's, on Bebe's ass, his other hand going to the back of Clyde's neck. His hands are warm, and big. Clyde has never kissed a boy.

"You're blushing," Kenny says, and Clyde arches toward him when he leans in for a kiss, wanting it. Kenny tastes different, though he just ate all the same things that Bebe did. He tastes like something powerful and maybe dangerous, or maybe just like somebody slightly bigger, capable of lifting Clyde off the floor. Clyde moans into Kenny's mouth, his hips twitching against Bebe's thigh while they kiss.

"Fuhh-ck," Bebe says. "Oh my god. You guys look so hot, like. I want to take a video."

"Don't take a video," Kenny says, pulling free. He looks back at Clyde, and moans a little when he sees his expression. "Man," Kenny says, and he kisses Clyde's nose. "I've thought so much about how you'd look on your back, legs in the air, all surrendered. Have you ever, like. Had anything up your ass?"

"Kenny!" Bebe says, and she puts her hand over her mouth to muffle her laughter. Clyde shakes his head. 

"I've thought about it," Clyde says, not wanting them to think he's some kind of naive child. "I just. Was afraid it would hurt, I guess." 

"Aw," Kenny says. He reaches down to rub Clyde's ass and untuck his shirt. "I wouldn't make it hurt. I'd make you feel so good, Clyde, you'd love it."

"What!" Bebe says. "I wanted to fuck him." 

"You really want to mess with the harness and the strap-on and all that right now?" Kenny asks, raising his eyebrow. "Or do you just want to let him eat you out while you watch me fuck him?"

"Oh god," Bebe says, nodding. "Yeah, that." She looks at Clyde and pets his cheek. "Honey, I'm sorry. Are we going too fast? Me and Kenny could just blow you or something. You've had a hard day."

"Can we do all of that?" Clyde asks, though he's afraid that Mrs. Stevens is going to come through the door any minute now, asking them if they want pie. Everything is suddenly so strange and simple that Clyde wouldn't be surprised if that happened and she just ducked out with an apology about interrupting their orgy. 

"Yeah, perfect," Kenny says, and his hand slides into the back of Clyde's pants, in past the waistband of his boxer shorts. Clyde groans when Kenny kneads his bare ass, and he humps himself against Bebe's thigh again. "Let's do it like I said and then finish him off with a double-action blow job." 

"Fuck," Clyde says. "Oh my god. Really?"

"Really," Bebe says, and she pulls off her shirt. Her bra is pretty and lacy and Clyde is almost sad to see it go, but not really, because her breasts are just as amazing as he always imagined, heavy and soft but youthfully perky, with big, pink nipples that he wants in his mouth.

“Can I take this off?” Kenny asks, unbuttoning Clyde's shirt. Clyde nods and lets him push it off. Kenny and Bebe both moan with approval at the sight of him naked from the waist up, though he's not that fit and actually kind of puffy, especially after the big meal. 

“Ugh,” Bebe says, smiling. “I just want to pinch you all over.” 

“Um,” Clyde says, not sure if he'd like that. 

“I've heard your cock is really big,” Kenny says, unbuttoning Clyde's jeans.

“Oh yeah? From who?”

“Millie. You slept with her over the summer, she said.” 

“Yeah,” Clyde says, watching Kenny push his jeans down and expose his tented boxers. “Did she say anything else about it? She didn't come back for seconds, so. I figured I was bad.”

“She said you seemed nervous,” Bebe says. She walks over to fondle him through his boxers, and his knees almost buckle. “You don't seem so nervous now.”

“You guys are nicer than her,” Clyde says. “I thought, I mean. I knew she'd tell everyone all about it. And she did, seems like.” 

“She told me and Wendy,” Bebe says. “I told Kenny. Sorry.” 

“That's okay-- unnhh. Yeah.” 

“Yeah?” Bebe says, still massaging his dick. She sneaks her hand into the slit and strokes him, and for one frightening moment he thinks he'll go off already, embarrassing himself and disappointing them. He's able to stave it off because Kenny has his hand down the back of his boxers again, and he's digging his fingers in between Clyde's chubby ass cheeks. It's a nice sensation, mostly, but so new that it scares Clyde's orgasm away. 

“Put him on the bed,” Kenny says. He pulls his shirt off as Bebe brings Clyde over to the bed, and Clyde is jealous of Kenny's long, trim torso. Clyde's arms are bigger, at least, from obsessive lifting. 

“Can we take these off?” Bebe asks, tugging at the waistband of Clyde's boxers. 

“Sure,” he says, helping her push them down. He's very pleased with himself when Bebe's and Kenny's eyes widen as they take in the dimensions of his dick. It is really big, actually. 

“Whoa,” Bebe says. “Nice.” 

“Is that, like, nine inches?” Kenny asks, stripping off his pants and underwear to expose his own pretty big dick. 

“I don't know,” Clyde says. “I haven't measured.”

“Millie said it was ten,” Bebe says, stroking Clyde as she presses him back onto the bed. “But I guess she didn't measure, either.”

“No,” Clyde says. He watches Bebe strip out of her skirt and underwear in awe, still unable to accept that he's about to have sex with his dream girl, featuring her bonus friendly boyfriend. Kenny is not Clyde's dream guy, despite being the best looking one he's ever known. Craig Tucker, for some probably masochistic reason, holds that title. 

It's a little awkward once they're all naked on the bed, but also cozy. Clyde wants to ask about the probability of Bebe's mother knocking on the door, but he doesn't want to spoil the magic of this, afraid to wake from it as if from a dream. They're both kissing him so sweetly, passing him back and forth like he's a delicious cocktail, and their hands are everywhere. Clyde is touching them, too, but clumsily, unable to concentrate on any particular thing that he wants to do most, with so much available. 

“I'll get you ready for Kenny,” Bebe says when her hand snakes down to cup Clyde's ass. “If that's okay? Are you sure you want to do all this?”

“Yeah,” Clyde says, and it's true. He feels like he's floating, and like nothing could possibly hurt him here, even Kenny's big dick. “Just, um. Use a condom?” He doesn't know where Butters has been. 

“Of course,” Kenny says, kissing him. Clyde moans into his mouth when he feels Bebe's lubed-up fingers sliding into his ass crack. He wonders where she got the lube from, then smells spicy apples and realizes it's the pinkish lotion from her bedside table. 

“Are you comfortable?” Bebe asks, and she chooses that moment to slide a fingertip into Clyde's ass, which is a surprisingly nice sensation, though there is a tinge of pain. 

“I'm good,” Clyde says, and he spreads his legs open wider, shamelessly, when Kenny fists his dick. “I just. Can't believe this is happening.” He thinks of his father downstairs, the third quarter starting. 

“It's not that we're casual about sex,” Bebe says, properly fingering him now. “We actually take it very seriously. Today is special, you know, and you seemed so – you were so upset. I just wanted you in bed with us.” 

“Uh-huh,” Clyde says, humping Kenny's hand. 

“Is he really tight?” Kenny asks, and Bebe snorts. 

“Kenny,” she says, scolding him. “Yes.” 

“I like you, too,” Kenny says, kissing Clyde's face. “I don't just want to fuck you because you're a virgin. Well, an anal virgin.” 

“Kenny,” Bebe says, and she reaches for the vape pen with her free hand. “You want more, baby?” she asks, murmuring this in Clyde's ear so softly that he nods and takes a drag, though he doesn't really want more. He's already high, just from them. 

“Butters wasn't,” Kenny says, tweaking Clyde's nipple. “A virgin, I mean. He'd already lost his to Cartman. I figured that was probably traumatic, but he said he liked it, only Cartman's dick is too small for him. Ha.” 

“Weird,” Clyde says, not because he's surprised about Cartman's small dick but because he can't picture Cartman or Butters having sex with anyone, let alone each other. 

“You know,” Bebe says. “I like this, all three of us lined up like this, and close. Let's not spit roast Clyde, okay, he doesn't need that right now. Some other time.”

“Is it even a spit roast if the person getting oral doesn't have a dick?” Kenny asks. 

“Yes,” Bebe says, sounding offended. She slips a second finger in and Clyde groans, pressing back. He has fantasized about having things done to his ass so many times, but never by her. He can't believe he didn't realize how ideal it would be. 

“So how do you want to do this?” Kenny asks. “Can I still fuck him?”

“As long as he wants you to. Clyde?”

“Uh-huh,” Clyde says, because the fingers are nice, but he's been too curious about having a cock up there to pass up Kenny's. “I'm, I think I'm ready.” He's worried that their parents will come looking for them before that double-action blow job happens. 

“Good,” Bebe says. She nibbles at Clyde's ear as she removes her fingers, slowly. “Kenny, sit back. Let him sort of sink down onto you, facing me. I want to kiss him while he does it.” 

“Kay,” Kenny says, assuming the position. Clyde allows Bebe to direct him, so glad to have her here for this. She makes him feel safe, always, and he wants to kiss her during this, too. 

It hurts at first, but having his hands on Bebe's chest and in her hair helps, and the kissing is so good, her whispered reassurances perfect, and Clyde is able to relax by the time he's fully seated. He's breathing through his nose in little pants and limp against Kenny's chest, his hips twitching a little when Kenny strokes his cock and sucks at his neck. Bebe is praising him for this, stroking his hair. 

“God, you are so good,” she says, her lips on Clyde's cheek, and she almost sounds tearful. “Clyde, you just. You're doing great, you're so sweet, you look so good like this.” 

“You feel fucking good,” Kenny says, grunting and shifting his hips a little. Clyde groans, shocked anew by how deep Kenny is inside him, and Bebe shushes him with a kiss. 

“You can't be loud,” she says, whispering. “Which sucks, because I'd really like to hear you be loud, but. You know, they'd freak.” She reaches for the strip of condoms on the bedside table and breaks another one off.

“What's that for?” Kenny asks. 

“For me,” Bebe says, opening the packet. “Well, for Clyde's dick, for me.” 

“Oh,” Kenny says, shifting again, and Clyde groans, his knees opening wider. “Yeah, that's good. We've never done that with Butters.” 

“I don't want Butters inside me,” Bebe says, cupping Clyde's cheek while she rolls the condom onto him with her other hand. “I mean, I love Butters, he's great, but he's not. You know. I don't love him like _this_ ,” she says, and Clyde whimpers when she kisses him, wondering if Kenny is jealous, a little, hearing that. He doesn't seem to be, calmly stroking Clyde's chest and remaining still inside him while Bebe kisses him. 

It's overwhelming, having her sink down onto him while Kenny's cock holds him open from behind, and Clyde is afraid he'll start to cry. _Everyone was having a good time until you had to go and turn on the waterworks_. He manages to hold it back because Bebe is moaning softly, under her breath, her eyelashes fluttering on Clyde's cheek when he's all the way in. He wraps his arms around her and drools a little onto her neck, kisses her jaw. 

“Okay, yeah,” Bebe says breathlessly, starting to move on him. “Yeah, oh.” 

“Bebe's a size queen,” Kenny says, touching her shoulders. She peeks at him and grins. 

“There's nothing wrong with knowing what you like,” she says. She wraps one arm around both of them and reaches down to touch herself with her other hand.

“I could do that,” Clyde says, feeling guilty for just sitting between them like a lump, absorbing their attentions. Bebe shakes her head.

“I like to do it myself,” she says, and Kenny groans. Bebe is pressing him down onto Kenny's dick while she rides him, and it feels good, almost good enough to make Clyde want to slam himself up and down, but that still seems a little scary. “You could do this, though,” she says, pressing her nipple to Clyde's lips, and he happily complies, sucking and nibbling until Kenny warns her not to get too loud. 

Clyde isn't surprised when Bebe brings herself off quickly, shuddering around him in a way that would have made him go off if he wasn't still getting used to the feeling of sitting on a big dick. He kisses her as she comes down, his hand tangled in her hair. He could spend hours just touching her hair, combing his fingers through it and feeling it on his face. 

“Jesus,” she says as she pulls off of him, and he wants her back, but she looks good flopped onto the pillows, too, flushed and watching as Clyde starts to move on Kenny. “You have to at least let me take a picture,” she says.

“No pictures,” Kenny says. 

“Kenny wants to be a senator or something,” Bebe says. “When he grows up.”

“Try President,” Kenny says, and Clyde feels bad for laughing. Kenny bites at his earlobe, gently, and pumps his hips up to meet Clyde's downward momentum. “Fuck,” he says, moaning into Clyde's ear. “Yeah, get that dick, champ. You like that, don't you?”

“Feels good,” Clyde says, blushing. Bebe crawls forward to pull the condom off his cock, and he whines a little, wanting her hands to stay there, but she skips across the room to fold the condom into a tissue and pitch it into the trashcan near her desk. 

“Okay,” Kenny says, groaning. “I'm gonna put you on your back. That okay?”

“Yes,” Clyde says. His knees are tense and aching, thighs trembling. Lying back and taking it sounds fucking great right now. He crawls off of Kenny's dick, moaning when it pops out of him. He feels shaky, too empty and a little chilly. Kenny quickly remedies this, arranging Clyde onto his back and swooping down to kiss him, his chest warm against Clyde's. 

“Yeah, fuck,” Kenny says when he slides back in. “That still feel good?”

“So good,” Clyde says, sobbing a little, but it's a dry sob. Bebe kneels beside the bed, petting Clyde's hair. 

“I know you're close,” she says to Kenny, pushing his bangs off his forehead. Kenny huffs and snaps his hips, making Clyde groan. Bebe presses her palm over Clyde's lips and whispers shhhh in his ear before kissing him there. 

“We've got to do this again,” Kenny says, leaning back onto his knees. He takes Clyde's ankles in his hands and spreads them more widely, fucking him harder. They both gasp when Clyde's hips tilt back and Kenny hits a really good spot, making Clyde clench around him. He's breathing hard against Bebe's palm, liking the sensation of being controlled by her while he opens himself completely to Kenny, kept in line. 

“We'll definitely do it again,” Bebe says. “If Clyde wants to.” She kisses his fluttering eyelids when he nods. “Next time I'll fuck you,” she says, whispering this in his ear like it's their secret. “I'll do it slow, and you won't be allowed to touch your dick until I'm done with you.” 

Kenny groans and comes, falling forward into Clyde's arms. Clyde hugs Kenny to him and wraps his legs around Kenny's back, turning his face into Bebe's kisses. Kenny lifts his head to kiss Clyde on the lips, then Bebe, and Clyde laughs when they both kiss his face at the same time, feeling crazed with gratitude. His dick is so hard against Kenny's stomach, aching. 

“Okay,” Bebe says as Kenny slides out of him. “Clyde's turn. Do you want to sit on the edge of the bed, or lie on your back?” 

“Sit,” Clyde says. He's very tired, but he really wants to watch them suck him from that particular angle. It's not something he even had the nerve to fantasize about, too surreal for the limits of his imagination. His heart feels like it's pounding in his throat as he watches Kenny walk over to the trashcan and dispose of his condom, not bothering to wrap it into a tissue the way Bebe did. 

Clyde knows he won't last long, and consoles himself with the fact that they can do this again sometime – lots of times, if it's up to him. He's holding his breath when they kneel between his knees on the floor, both zeroing in on his dick as they spread his legs wider, until his thighs ache a little. 

“Aw, he's gonna taste like a condom,” Kenny says. 

“Quit your bitching,” Bebe says, and she pinches Kenny's flat ass before leaning in to lick a long stripe from the base of Clyde's cock to the tip. Clyde has to stuff his fist in his mouth to keep from shouting, and he bites down too hard when Kenny starts licking him, too. It's a shocking, white hot pleasure that tips him toward his orgasm as soon as Kenny takes him fully into his mouth, deep throating the whole length of him like a pro. 

“Gonna—” Clyde manages, then he's whimpering with embarrassing softness and flooding Kenny's mouth with come, watching him swallow it. Bebe gets up and sits behind Clyde on the bed, hugging him and letting him slump back against her chest. Clyde is shuddering all over, boneless and brainless, ready to sleep for hours with both of them wrapped around him. 

“Mhmm,” Kenny says, getting up to sit beside them. “That's the biggest cock I've ever sucked. Pretty proud of myself.” 

“Well done, honey,” Bebe says. She's nuzzling Clyde's cheek, petting his heaving chest. “And you, Clyde, you were wonderful. Are you okay?”

“Ass a little sore?” Kenny asks, giving Clyde's belly an apologetic rub. Clyde shakes his head, though it is a little sore. He doesn't care; it all feels so good. 

“Thank you,” he says, almost crying again. He feels like they wouldn't get mad at him if he did, or accuse him of ruining the fun, so the urge the cry passes quickly. 

“I wish we could have a nap,” Bebe says. “But we'd better go back downstairs.”

“Just for a minute,” Clyde says, begging. “Could we lie here just for a minute?” 

“Well, sure,” Kenny says, stretching out on the bed and pulling Clyde with him. He spoons Clyde from behind, and it feels so unexpectedly good to have Kenny's soft cock flopped against his back. Bebe takes another hit from the vape pen before cuddling up in Clyde's arms, burrowing in against his chest while Kenny plays with her hair. Clyde holds onto her tightly, and suddenly he feels a cold burst of loneliness, because he wants them to be his girlfriend and boyfriend, but they actually belong only to each other. He can feel it even while he's wedged between them like this, the undiminished power of what they have together washing over him. 

“Man, I'm so baked,” Bebe says, mumbling this against Clyde's collarbone. “I wanted to come again, but I can only do it once when I'm smoking. The downside of weed.” 

“When she's sober she can come like five times in half an hour,” Kenny says, proudly. “Girls are lucky.” 

“I still wish I had a dick,” Bebe says. “Or one of each, I guess.” 

“Interchangeable genitalia would be awesome,” Kenny says, and Clyde laughs. 

Ten minutes later they're dressed and sitting in the living room, all of them smelling like spicy apples. Clyde is deliriously sleepy, barely able to stay awake enough to eat a slice of apple pie with ice cream. He falls asleep before the end of the game, and wakes up with his head on Bebe's shoulder. 

“The Broncos won,” she says, whispering, and she touches Clyde's lips with two fingertips. Kenny is sitting beside her, yawning. “Kenny's gonna head home now,” she says when Clyde sits up and blinks blearily, seeing that it's gotten pitch dark outside. The dads are discussing the game, and he can hear the water running in the kitchen. “You want to walk with Kenny?” Bebe asks. “Or are you going home with your dad?”

“I'll walk with Kenny,” Clyde says, not wanting to be alone with his father right now. Bebe nods and kisses his cheek. 

Mrs. Stevens sends Kenny home with a big plate loaded with leftovers and covered in foil. Kenny's coat is thin and the night is freezing, the air smelling of incoming snow. Clyde takes off his knit hat and puts it on Kenny's head, hoping he won't be offended by this charity. Kenny grins and puts an arm around him as they walk toward the rougher side of town, toward Kenny's house. 

“I've got to swing by Craig's on the way and pick up Karen,” Kenny says. “She had dinner with the Tuckers.” 

“Yikes,” Clyde says. “Why?”

“I guess to support Ruby. They're real good friends, and apparently it's been bad. I don't know why they don't just get divorced already.” 

Clyde could say the same about Kenny's parents, who are also infamous for bitter fights in public, but he doesn't.

“I hope we didn't freak you out,” Kenny says, glancing over at Clyde. “You don't seem freaked out.”

“I'm not. I liked it.” 

“Next time we'll all go to sleep together, after. Butters really likes that part. He's cuddly.”

“I am, too.” 

“I know,” Kenny says, and he kisses Clyde's temple. Clyde is flooded with warmth that cools quickly, because he wants to hug Kenny and burrow into the heat of him even now, to sniff at the cheap shampoo scent of his hair on that hat later, but he's not Kenny's boyfriend, or Bebe's, and they cuddle with Butters, too. 

As they approach the Tucker house, Clyde can hear an unsettling hacking noise, and he can see Ruby and Karen sitting outside, on the front porch steps, despite the freezing cold. They're bundled up together, Karen holding Ruby's gloved hand between both of hers. The hacking sound is Craig, who is coat-less and hat-less, using a hand axe to chop wildly at a small tree near the side of the house. 

“Oh, shit,” Kenny says when they stand there staring at Craig, who continues to go at the tree like it killed his whole family, hitting it here and there, sometimes missing entirely and swinging the axe only through the air. “Fuck,” Kenny says. “I'd better get my sister out of here.” 

They walk toward the house and Karen jumps up, runs toward them and hugs Kenny around his middle. She's about half his height. Kenny holds the leftovers above her head and gives Ruby a mournful, sympathetic look that she doesn't seem to want. She calls goodbye to Karen and goes into the house, slamming the door behind her. 

“It was bad,” Karen says, and she glances at Clyde shyly before looking back at Kenny. “Real bad. Where'd you get that hat?”

“It's Clyde's,” Kenny says. “Hold this.” He gives Karen the plate of leftovers and pulls off the hat, handing it back to Clyde. “Thanks for a good time,” Kenny says. “Guess we'd better part ways here – your house is down that way, right?”

“Uh-huh,” Clyde says. He looks back at Craig. He's still chopping at the tree. “I should say something to him,” Clyde says, dreading it. “Before he hurts himself.”

“Probably a good idea,” Kenny says, and Clyde is annoyed by the fact that he seems glad that he won't have to do it himself. “Well, we're off. Watch yourself with him and that axe.”

“He won't hit me,” Clyde says, though he's actually not sure.

He walks toward Craig slowly, not wanting to startle him while he's like this. Typically Craig is very unemotional, and he's made lots of claims, over the years, that he doesn't give a shit what happens between his parents. Clyde has never believed that. He's known Craig since the Tuckers moved to South Park when Craig was five years old. They were from Fairplay, and for their first two years here they lived with Craig's grandmother, who was a lunch lady at the elementary school. Craig pretty much had to be the toughest kid in school, right away, and he was. 

“Hey,” Clyde says when Craig pauses in his insane hacking to pant heavily, the axe still clutched in his hand. He whirls on Clyde and gives him a murderous look. 

“What the fuck are you looking at?” Craig says. “Get off my property.” 

“Are you gonna chop me if I don't?”

Craig stares down at the axe as if he doesn't know where it came from, then drops it onto the snow. He turns and kicks the poor tree, which has about twenty shallow slashes in it now. 

“What have you got against that tree?” Clyde asks. 

“My mom planted it when I was born,” Craig says. He turns to Clyde and takes what appear to be a few bracing breaths, putting his shoulders back. “And my life is a lie.” 

“Huh?” 

“I said my life is a lie, Clyde.” 

“Where's your coat?” Clyde asks. He's still holding his knit hat, and he wants to offer it to Craig, but he's afraid Craig might tear it to shreds. 

“My coat is in there.” Craig points at his house, his finger shaking. “In that den of lies. I'm never going back. Fuck my coat. Fuck 'em all.” 

Clyde can hear Craig's parents arguing at full volume up on the second floor. Mrs. Tucker sounds like she's crying. 

“Let's go somewhere,” Clyde says. “C'mon, anywhere. I'm free.” 

“Of course you're free. What are you even doing here?” Craig looks up at the second floor of his house after asking this, and Clyde sees him swallow heavily. 

“I was walking home from Bebe's,” Clyde says. He holds the hat out, not sure if Craig is shivering with rage or because he's cold. “I had sex with Kenny McCormick,” Clyde adds, feeling suddenly queasy about it and wanting to recapture Craig's attention. It works: Craig looks back to him and frowns. 

“What?” 

“I had sex with Kenny,” Clyde says, his voice trembling a little. 

“He cheated on Bebe?” Craig snatches the hat out of Clyde's hand. “That fucking shithead. And you were complicit? You asshole, Clyde, you're a fucking asshole!”

“What – no! Bebe knew. She was there. It's a thing they do. Fuck.” Clyde shouldn't have told anyone, let alone Craig, who is not to be trusted with sensitive information. 

“Jesus.” Craig jams Clyde's hat on his head and walks toward the street. “This town is fucking sick. You're all a bunch of philandering sluts.” 

“Where are you going?” Clyde asks, following. 

“To confront my father,” Craig says. “Maybe he'll cut off my hand.” 

“Huh?” Clyde looks back at Craig's house, where he can still hear Craig's father shouting from the second floor. “Your dad?”

“That's right.” Craig glares at Clyde, his arms folded over his chest and his shoulders raised against the cold. “Randy Marsh. My biological father. Happy fucking Thanksgiving to me.” 

“What?” Clyde suppresses a laugh. “Stan's dad? What are you talking about?”

“I'm talking about my mother, the tramp who slept with Randy Marsh when they were snowed in during some geological survey, in a fucking storm overlook in the mountains. This was when they were both grad students, of course. How romantic, how great! Did you know my mother is also a geologist? That she used to commute to South Park for her internship, before we moved here, before I was conceived? That she opened her legs to the most reprehensible asshole in the tri-county area because she was bored while awaiting rescue? No wonder Thomas Tucker hates me and wants to disown me for the minor crime of having downloaded gay porn onto the family computer. I'm not even his.” 

“Whoa,” Clyde says, lifting his hand to pat Craig's back. He thinks better of it and puts his arm back down; Craig is giving off a lot of energy right now, and none of suggests that he wants to be touched. “Jesus. Is that true?”

“Yes, it's true, Clyde! Fucking _look_ at me!”

Clyde gives Craig a nervous glance. There have been jokes about this before, because Craig and Stan look so similar, but Clyde always figured it was just a coincidence. 

“My parents decided to share this information during the Thanksgiving meal,” Craig says, kicking snow. “As fight ammunition, in front of me and Ruby and that little McCormick wretch, because they're classy like that.” 

“Shit,” Clyde says, not sure what else to say. 

“And now you've gone and had sex with Kenny,” Craig says. “Fantastic.” 

“Sorry,” Clyde says, though he's not sure what him having sex with Kenny has to do with any of this, or why Craig should care. Craig and Clyde used to be pretty good friends, before high school, but then Craig got closed off and only seemed to want to talk to Tweek. The Tweak family closed their coffee shop and moved to California last year, and Craig hasn't really talked to anyone since, as far as Clyde can tell. 

Craig says nothing as they walk away from his house and down the street, toward Stan's. Clyde is tempted to give him his coat, because he's hunched in on himself and walking with his arms still crossed tightly over his skinny chest. Stan is thicker than Craig, though they have the same basic dimensions. Craig's nose is pointier, and his has his mother's cold gray eyes, while Stan has Sharon Marsh's warm blue ones. Stan and Craig have the same mouth, the same eyebrows, the same slightly off-center part in their black hair. 

“You have a brother,” Clyde says, and he's a little jealous. Stan is cool, nice, handsome. He's someone you'd be glad to be related to. Randy is less so, but he's mostly harmless, and nicer than Thomas Tucker, as far as Clyde can tell. Randy lets Stan hold Kyle Broflovski's hand in public without protesting, and apparently gay porn is a crime in the Tucker household. Clyde supposes it's not the same thing. He glances over at Craig, then elbows him. 

“A brother,” Craig says. He spits into the snow. “Bullshit.” 

“Technically, though. I always wanted a brother.” 

“Oh, fucking shut up, Clyde, god.”

Clyde stays quiet, glad that Craig is letting him walk with him. Craig shouldn't be alone right now, and Clyde is starting to feel like he shouldn't be, either. His ass is hurting more and more as he walks, and he keeps wishing he could itch it. He's always figured he probably likes both boys and girls, but it's never been a real thing that he's had to confront, part of his actual sex life. Before tonight, he'd never had sex with anyone but Millie, and that was just the once. Now he's a philandering threesome-haver. 

“For fuck's sake,” Craig says when they reach the Marsh household. “Are you crying?”

“No.” Clyde sniffles and wipes his leaking nose with his glove. “What are you going to do?” he asks, hoping he won't have to call the cops or something. 

“I'm going to tell Stan,” Craig says. “He shouldn't be allowed to go on living in blissful ignorance, acting like he's the golden boy with the perfect life, enjoying his peaceful Thanksgivings. His father cheated on his mother with a younger woman. He should know what sort of vile stock we both come from. I want to see him _crushed_.” 

“Aw,” Clyde says, thinking of the innocent tree Craig nearly chopped down. “It's not Stan's fault, though.” 

“It's not my fault, either!” 

“Of course it's not. I didn't say – where are you going? Craig?”

Clyde follows Craig around the side of the house, toward Stan's bedroom window. It's on the first floor, and they've all climbed in and out of it a few times over the years, because Stan's house was a kind of central gathering place when they were boys, when they roamed in packs instead of smaller cliques. Craig is breathing hard, and Clyde is, too, by the time he catches up. Craig crouches under Stan's window. The two voices inside are familiar.

“Kyle's there,” Craig says, rubbing his hands together. “Perfect.”

“Do you want my gloves?” Clyde whispers, pulling one off. 

“Shh!” Craig says. He leans up to peek through the curtains, which are hanging open slightly. “Oh, fuck,” he whispers. “They're nude.” 

“Ew,” Clyde says. “Let's go. Craig! You can't spy on them.” 

“What the hell does Kyle have on his head?” Craig whispers, snickering. 

Clyde leans up to look, feeling guilty. He has to hold in a peel of nervous laughter when he recognizes the thing that is on Kyle's head, which is also the only thing he's wearing. 

“His elf king crown,” Clyde says, whispering this in Craig's ear. “From when we were kids.” Craig's shoulder is pressed to Clyde's now, and he can feel Craig shaking from the cold. “Here, wear my gloves,” he whispers, trying to put one on Craig's hand. 

“Oh, my god,” Craig says. “Look at them. Look at these fucking assholes. Shhh, listen.” 

Clyde strains to hear what Stan and Kyle are saying. They're talking kind of loud, like they're in a play, and Clyde wonders if they're recording homemade porn, speaking up so that the audio will be captured. 

“Now that the ceremonial feast is complete,” Kyle says, lying back on Stan's bed and spreading his legs to show off his erection, the crown still pressing his curls down. “You must deflower me to seal the peace between our kingdoms, knight.” 

Craig stifles laughter, pressing Clyde's glove to his mouth. Clyde grins over at him, feeling bad about seeing something so private but glad to see Craig happy, even if it's only temporary and kind of judgmental.

“I know you are a proud elf, my king,” Stan says. “My people are grateful to you for submitting to this ceremony. Forgive me.” Stan is wearing a modified version of his old knight hat from the game they played as kids. He's hard, too, pointing his dick at Kyle and unfastening the sword belt from his hips. Stan has a really nice ass; Clyde has never noticed before. He wonders if Craig shares this genetic trait. 

“We should go,” Clyde whispers. “This is weird.” 

“No shit,” Craig says. “Wait, I want to see what happens.” 

“I think they're gonna fuck.” 

“Shh!”

“It will be difficult,” Kyle says, pulling his knees back to show Stan his hole, which is glistening as if pre-prepared. “But I will bear your sword of flesh for the good of our kingdoms, and to seal our royal marriage.” 

Craig laughs harder, sinking down to the ground to bury the sound of it in his hands. Clyde sighs, because he's beginning to get hard. Stan's cock is really nice, too, and Kyle looks good like this, a blush moving from his throat to his pale chest. Clyde wouldn't mind playing games like this in private. He was a king in this game, too, and Craig was his knight. 

“I know you never imagined such indignity,” Stan says, approaching Kyle with his dick in his hand. “And it pains me to think of drawing pleasure from your penetration.” 

“Ah, knight,” Kyle says. “I shall find the strength to bear it somehow. If we do not consummate our union, the entire world shall crumble.” 

“Jesus,” Craig whispers, straightening to have another look. “Kyle would get off on the idea that he's taking Stan's dick for the good of mankind.” 

“Craig, let's go. I feel weird, watching this.” 

“Are you getting aroused?” Craig asks, sneering. “I suppose you are, since suddenly you're gay and fucking Kenny.” 

“I'm not – I'm the other thing. Bisexual. I guess. I don't know what I am. We got high.” 

“Of course you did, those two are never not high. Jesus, you really do have an erection.” 

“How can you tell?” Clyde looks down at himself. As he suspected, his bulky coat is covering his boner. Craig shrugs.

“You're blushing,” he says. “Fuck, I'm freezing. Let's get out of the cold, c'mon.” 

Before they leave, they both peek at the scene in Stan's bedroom one last time. Stan is leaning down onto Kyle, both of them still wearing their hats. Clyde can hear Craig swallow as they watch the tip of Stan's cock teasing against Kyle's hole, both of them staring at each other intently, as if they really are about to save the world with their magical butt sex. 

“Jesus,” Craig says, and he grabs Clyde's arm. “Let's go, come here.” 

He pulls Clyde around the front of the house, and then to the other side, where a door leads to the garage. Craig tries the knob, and Clyde moans unhappily when it turns in his hand. 

“What are you doing?” Clyde asks, watching Craig creep into the garage. 

“Get in there,” Craig says. “I need you to warm me up.” 

“Huh?” 

“Look, I got hard, too, watching that shitshow. You were so eager to give me your stupid gloves. Would you be willing to fuck me on Randy Marsh's tool bench? To warm me up? I need this, Clyde, please.” 

Clyde follows Craig into the garage. It's warmer inside, out of the wind, but the garage isn't heated. Craig makes his way toward Randy's tools, which are hanging on the wall over a large wooden table. There's a wall-mounted florescent lamp that runs the length of the table, and Craig turns it on. When Craig starts unbuttoning his jeans, Clyde decides he must be dreaming all of this, asleep on the couch after Thanksgiving dinner. He must have even dreamed the part about washing dishes with Kenny and Bebe, and everything that happened after they invited him up to her room. 

“I – Craig, wait,” Clyde says when Craig bends over the work table, pointing his bare ass at Clyde. “What. Why are you doing this?”

“Because I'm cold,” Craig says, glaring at Clyde from over his shoulder. “And to stick it to Randy Marsh, and Stan, and my dad – I mean, Thomas Tucker – and because I want your cock, Clyde, okay, so. Either give it to me or leave me here to fuck myself with a screwdriver handle or something.” 

“Jesus, no.” Clyde touches Craig's ass, protectively. His skin is cool and covered in goosebumps. “I don't have a condom,” Clyde says, whispering. He can hear people talking in the house, adults laughing and plates clinking together. 

“Well, you're new to this,” Craig says, and he squats down to grab his wallet from his jeans, which are pooled around his ankles. He opens the wallet and pulls out a condom and what looks like a ketchup packet. Upon closer examination, it's a sample-size packet of some fancy-looking lotion. “A gay man,” Craig says, “–or a bisexual one, or a lesbian who enjoys pegging, whatever you are – should always have these supplies on hand. Take note.” 

“This is crazy,” Clyde says, but he's opening the condom, still very hard. Craig's ass is even better than Stan's, less muscular but cute, as pale as an untouched snow drift. “Have you done this before?” Clyde asks, caressing Craig's ass again. He's trembling a little.

“Shh!” Craig says. “Put the condom on.” 

“Should I finger you?” Clyde asks, whispering. 

“If you want, but hurry up! I need warming. Friction. Interior, uh. Combustion.” 

Clyde is beginning to sweat inside his clothes, so he takes his coat off and drapes it over Craig's back like a blanket. He sighs and looks around the garage while he unbuttons his pants. There's a S'mores Schnapps promotional calendar hanging over Randy's work table, on the wall near a hand saw. It's still turned to October, and the picture features a girl in a sexy cat costume, cleavage bursting from her black leotard as she laughs into a glass of S'mores Schnapps over ice, the bottle clutched in her other hand. On the 19th, Randy has written the 'STAN B-DAY,' though maybe that was actually Sharon, because the handwriting looks like a woman's. 

“I can't open this,” Clyde says, the packet of lotion refusing to tear. He's already put the condom on, stupidly, because he still needs to finger Craig. He wishes they were doing this at his house, in his bed. 

“Give it to me,” Craig says, and he attempts to rip it open with his teeth, his elbows braced on the work bench. Clyde kneels down behind him and kisses one trembling ass cheek, then the other. “Don't rim me!” Craig hisses. “Not here,” he adds, as if Clyde might be allowed rim him to elsewhere, in some more ideal setting. 

“Sorry,” Clyde says, standing, and he's glad to see that Craig has managed to tear the lotion packet open. “Where do you even get these things?” he asks, taking it. 

“I'll tell you the tricks of the trade later,” Craig says. “Not that it's a trade. That's just an expression, in my case. And yes, this is my first time,” he says, hurriedly, when Clyde presses his slick fingers in between Craig's ass cheeks. “So, you know. Careful.” 

“Craig,” Clyde says, his voice wavering. He can't believe he's still so hard; he's always imagined Craig fucking him, not the other way around, but suddenly he really wants this. “We could do this somewhere more comfortable--”

“No! I want it to be here! Do it, Clyde, I need you.” 

Clyde believes that, and that in some profound way Craig really does need him to do precisely this, nothing less. He moans under his breath when his fingers brush over Craig's hole. It feels tiny, and so tight when he tries to push one fingertip in. 

“Faster,” Craig whispers when they hear footsteps in the house, people walking from room to room. 

“But you said to be careful.” 

“Be, I don't know, efficient!”

Clyde has never done this before, not even to himself, and he has no idea how to follow that direction, fingering-wise. He associates the word 'efficient' with saving money, though that can't be right and he trusts that Craig is using it properly. Craig is better at languages than Clyde, and vocab.

Craig huffs his breath against the work table while Clyde fingers him, praying that he's being efficient. He feels like he's going too fast, but Craig is pressing back and fucking himself on Clyde's finger like he wants more, so he must be doing okay.

“In me,” Craig says before Clyde can work a second finger in. “Now.” 

“I want you to be my boyfriend,” Clyde says. It's an epiphany that he can't hold in, but he feels bad after saying it, like he's blackmailing Craig, only offering to fuck him now if Craig will date him in the aftermath. He decides that's not an altogether terrible thing to do and bends down to nuzzle at the back of Craig's neck, kissing him there. “Please?” he whispers. 

Craig has stiffened beneath him, still breathing hard. Clyde's dick is bumping against his hole, snuggled in between Craig's spread cheeks. There's cheering from within the house, probably football-related. Gerald is a Jets fan, and Clyde noticed the Broflovski family van parked outside. 

“Okay,” Craig says, not even whispering. “Yes.” 

“You'll be my boyfriend?”

“Yes, Clyde, I said yes!” 

“I miss you,” Clyde says, nuzzling him again. 

“So put your dick in me,” Craig says, and he mutters, “I missed you, too,” when Clyde presses into him, quickly realizing that he's not going to last very long this time either. Craig feels much tighter than Bebe did, and yet, physically and otherwise, he feels like he needs this so much more. 

“Ahh,” Clyde says, sinking in slow, wanting to lie on Craig's back and kiss his throat. “God, oh my god.” 

“Shit,” Craig says. “Why is your cah– cock so big?”

“I don't know,” Clyde says. “It just grew that way. Too big?”

“No, god! Fuck me with that big dick. Hammer that ass.”

Clyde glances at the tools on the wall, locating the hammer and focusing on it so that he won't come as soon as he's all in. He succeeds, and moves his hips in shallow thrusts, reaching down to find Craig's cock. It's really wet, the tip leaking so much that it must have gotten onto Clyde's coat. Clyde groans appreciatively, forgetting to be quiet.

He's been in Craig for about ten seconds when the door to the house opens into the garage and Randy steps inside, whistling and holding a recycling bin full of beer bottles. 

“Wha--” Randy says when he sees them, and Clyde doesn't know what to do. He freezes, his hands braced on Craig's back as Craig rises up onto his palms, his ass clenching so hard around Clyde's dick that Clyde falls forward and comes in him, painfully hard. 

“Oh, fuck!” Clyde cries out, in apology, to everyone. 

“I know the truth!” Craig shouts, bucking backward so that Clyde will disconnect. He does, his cock still spurting and his face on fire with horrified shame. Craig seems less concerned, yanking Clyde's coat around him to cover himself. “You fucking asshole!” Craig shouts at Randy, who is wide-eyed and frozen in the doorway. “I know what you did, so don't look at me like I don't belong here! You owe me shitloads of child support, okay, back-dated! We were on food stamps, you asshole! For three years!”

By now, Sharon and Gerald have appeared. Sheila is close behind, coming to the doorway with a frown. Clyde turns his back to them and stuffs his dick into his jeans, wincing as he zips up. 

“Craig?” Sharon says. “Clyde? What are you – what is going on?”

“Were you boys having sex in here?” Sheila squawks. 

“Oh, lay off,” Craig says, doing up his pants. “At least we weren't wearing elven flower crowns. Your son needs a psych eval, fyi.”

“We are so sorry,” Clyde says, not daring to meet anyone's eyes as he attempts to lead Craig away by the shoulders. “Sorry, really sorry—”

“I'm not,” Craig says. He points at Randy. “You'll be hearing from a lawyer. Go ahead and circle January 25 on your calendar, papa, because your bastard son has a big birthday check coming his way this year.” 

“What – what is going on?” Randy looks to Sharon, who shrugs. Stan and Kyle appear, both of them looking like they dressed in a hurry. 

“What the hell?” Stan says, holding Kyle's shoulders as if to protect him from these nefarious intruders. Clyde has guided Craig halfway toward the door that leads outside. 

“Oh, hi, Stan,” Craig says. “Turns out I'm your brother. Look into it. Happy Thanksgiving, assholes.” 

Craig slams out into the night then, and Clyde gives everybody one last apologetic look before following him. They all look stunned, except for Sharon, who now looks as if she understands perfectly, her mouth tight. Clyde runs.

He catches up to Craig at the edge of the yard. He doesn't know what to say. Craig is still wearing Clyde's hat and coat, and one of his gloves. His breath is choppy and his eyes are red.

“'Tis the season,” Craig says. “I'm homeless.”

“No, you're not.” 

“I can't go home, Clyde, you don't know what I said to my mother.” Craig looks regretful about this for a moment, his lips trembling. “And I don't think my dad wants me. Either of them.” 

“I want you,” Clyde says. “Come home with me.” 

Craig stops walking and turns to Clyde like he's going to swing himself at Clyde in the style of an axe, ready to leave permanent scars. His mouth quirks and his eyes water. 

“Please come home with me,” Clyde says when he realizes that Craig won't be able to speak without bursting into tears. He steps forward and puts his hands on Craig's shoulders, kisses his forehead. “Please? You said you'd be my boyfriend. I need company tonight. Thanksgiving just. Sucks, now.” 

Craig sucks in his breath and mostly keeps his composure on the way to Clyde's house, huddled under Clyde's arm. Clyde is freezing, embarrassed, but he also feels bigger and more important than he has in a long time, and he's glad when his phone buzzes with a text from his dad that says he's had too much to drink and will be spending the night on the couch at the Stevens' house. 

“My dad's out for the night,” Clyde says as he walks Craig into his dark kitchen. He goes to flip on a light, then decides not to, because Craig's face is wet, and he's shaking with the effort of hiding his tears from Clyde. “C'mon,” Clyde says, and he brings Craig through the house, up the stairs, to his bedroom. 

Again, Clyde leaves the lights off. Craig stands listlessly in the middle of the room and allows Clyde to pull off the hat, the coat, the glove. He helps Craig out of his pants, too, because he'll probably want to clean up a little, but Craig goes straight for the bed. Clyde takes his remaining glove off, then his pants, and hurries to join Craig in bed. 

Craig has his back to Clyde at first, but that only lasts for a few seconds. As soon as the first audible sob surfaces he rolls over, burying himself against Clyde's chest and clinging hard. Clyde doesn't say 'shhh,' doesn't say anything. He pulls the blankets up and holds Craig tight beneath them, letting him cry as hard and as long as he wants. 

“Can I really stay here?” Craig asks when he finally speaks, his voice scratched up and raw. 

“Of course,” Clyde says. He's stroking Craig's hair, kissing his forehead. “I really have missed you. And tonight. It was so fucked up. For me, too, like. It was nice, but I felt kind of used. I guess?”

“They don't deserve you,” Craig says. He takes a shuddering breath and lets it out, his hand sneaking up under Clyde's sweater, pressing warm against his skin. “Anyway, you're mine.” 

“Yeah,” Clyde says, scooting down to kiss Craig's salty face. “I am.” 

“It's just that easy with you, isn't it?”

“It's not that easy.” 

“I guess you're right.” 

They kiss for a while, tiredly. Craig sighs a lot and blinks out a few more tears. Clyde lets them streak all the way down to Craig's jaw before he brushes them away.


End file.
